


Where Do We Go From Here?

by vogue91



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Gen, Melancholy, Rare Characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-17 23:29:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13087695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vogue91/pseuds/vogue91
Summary: And yet during these moments, when the night fell and the streets became deserted, the Hog’s Head was the place for whom, like him, had too many thoughts and too many things to hide.





	Where Do We Go From Here?

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts: Any Hogwarts' teachre, Whiskey, Hogsmeade, “A man is not old until regrets take the place of dreams.” (A. Einstein)

It was night.

He didn’t exactly know what time it was, nor he could’ve gotten that from the position of the moon in the sky: there was a thick layer of clouds that made Hogsmeade’s outlines fade under the naked eye.

Horace sighed.

It was going to be another night to share with his doubts, his fears and his beloved liquor, working as a medicine against those thoughts he wasn’t able to face. And it worked always and bloody well.

He went toward the Hog’s Head with a tired stride; slow, as usual, almost pretending with himself he didn’t actually want to go. One of the many lies he told himself.

He opened the pub’s heavy door, not without effort, and waved distractedly at Aberforth; he sat at a table, far from the windows up the street. Not that he was worried to be seen there, since it was rare for that part of Hogsmeade to be visited by any other Hogwart’s teacher, who by far preferred Rosmerta’s mead, the almost familiar warmth of the Three Broomsticks. He didn’t dislike to go there during the winter weekends, when the whole castle seemed to pour out into the pub, and he felt happy to be surrounded by students, noisy and cheerful.

And yet during these moments, when the night fell and the streets became deserted, the Hog’s Head was the place for whom, like him, had too many thoughts and too many things to hide.

“The usual?” Aberforth asked, interrupting his thoughts. Horace nodded briefly, letting his eyes roam to the rest of the half empty pub. He jumped when the owner put a bottle of Fire Whiskey on his table, far from delicate.

“Thoughtful as usual, huh?” Aberforth grumbled, with his usual sour tone. Slughorn lowered his head in assent, dashing on the glass as soon as it was full. He gulped down the amber liquor in a single sip, then he raised his eyes on Aberforth, who was sniggering.

Trying to look as dignified as possible, he tore the bottle from his hands, pouring himself another glass.

“I’m more thirsty than usual.” he declared, almost nonchalant, while he started drinking again, this time slower.

Horace didn’t feel much like showing through his gestures the anxiety he felt, but he realized that it was his eyes which unmasked him. For some weird reason, for the last few months it had felt as though the number of wrinkles on his face had grown, that the circles under his eyes were highlighted, that his smiles were all imbued with insincerity, with guilt.

He grimaced when Aberforth, after having grabbed another glass from the counter, sat in front of him, pouring himself some Whiskey.

“You’re always particularly thirsty since you’ve come back to Hogwarts. I bet it’s the joy of being again in that dump.” he ironized, without looking at him, gulping down the liquor as Horace had done before.

“I like to teach.” Horace replied, as feeling indignant. “And I’m glad to be back, having me as a professor may help a lot of students to get ahead, it wouldn’t be the first time...” he was about to lose himself in yet another one of his self-celebrating speeches, when reality crushed on him. He sighed. “Maybe I’m just getting too old, that’s all.” he said in the end, and didn’t dare to look the other in the eyes.

Aberforth’s laugh echoed among the narrow walls of the pub, making Horace jump one more time.

“Old! We all get old, don’t we? You get old, I do... even my crazy brother does, even if you couldn’t say by just watching him.” he put the glass back on the table, violently. “Do you know what he says? He says a man is not old until regrets take the place of dreams.” he shook his head, doubtful. “Go figure what it means. Albus has always had too much fun talking in riddles, and I’ve grown tired of trying to understand him a long time ago.” his expression had clouded over, all of a sudden. He stood up, getting back to the counter, leaving Slughorn more thoughtful than before.

Talking about Albus had annoyed him more than a little, since he was one of his most pressing issues. And yet, he couldn’t help but taking his mind back to the words Aberforth had just told him.

_A man is not old until regrets take the place of dreams._

He believed to have crossed the limit of sobriety when it felt like those words were meant for him.

Albus Dumbledore... that man operated in a way that he couldn’t possibly understand. And he didn’t understand what was in his mind, it made Horace feel constantly hunted. His guilt followed his every step, and he could do anything but going to Hogsmeade and trying to drown it in Whiskey.

Pathetic. Definitely pathetic.

A man is not old until regrets take the place of dreams.

Lost inside the glass, Slughorn pondered.

He pondered on how old age had surprised him on his path.

He pondered on his dreams, before realizing he had had none in a long time. He merely had some weak desires, simple: the peace he thought he deserved, living without the fear of the wrong people knocking on his door.

And to realize, at least in part, this desire, he had chosen to keep quiet.

He had chosen not to reveal anything that could put him in a bad light in front of the others, but most of all in front of himself.

Because he felt ashamed about what he had done, he felt terribly ashamed.

A man is not old until regrets take the place of dreams.

And Horace, right now, felt overflowing with regrets.

He sighed, moving his hand absorbed, watching the amber liquid spinning tirelessly in his glass. Then he drank, again.

His regrets as well as his silly and shallow desires, were drowning in that Whiskey. They were drenched it in, as his mind, which refused to erase each and every thought.

He was just an old man who wanted to be left alone, but he had to realize that there couldn’t be peace until it was his mind which haunted him.

An old man, come to a point in life where he wasn’t able to suffocate his regrets anymore.

Dumbledore... how much did that man think. How able was he to play with human beings up to the point of bringing them where he wanted.

He started to feel intoxicated. Of that intoxication that didn’t bring euphoria, but only bitterness.

He sighed, closing his eyes briefly.

He would’ve thought again about it, with a clear mind.

For now, the only thing he wanted was to stay there, drinking and staring at Hogsmeade’s empty streets, trying to focus on the void hanging on his life as the sword of Damocles.

A man is not old until regrets take the place of dreams.

_You’re just an old man, Horace_ he told himself.

An old man owning just his regret and a bottle of Fire Whiskey.

He wasn’t going to flee from them either.  


End file.
